


Traction Tunes

by sameoldsatellite



Category: Mortal Engines Series - Philip Reeve
Genre: Epistolary, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Musicians, Post-Apocalypse, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:33:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23771632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameoldsatellite/pseuds/sameoldsatellite
Summary: The letters of a young struggling but gifted Brighton composer to his navigator lover in London during the later years of the Traction Era, five years before the MEDUSA disaster, as he attempts to make fame and fortune for the struggling medium of music in a world of engines and smoke.
Kudos: 9





	1. Airhaven, 4th March 1002 TE

> **_“Relegated to mere solo street buskers, trio bands with threadbare instruments and composers whose works can often never find a full-fledged orchestra on any city - music is perhaps the most criminally underscored art form of the Traction Era.”_ **

Translated from “ _Musique de l'ère de la Traction_ ”  
by J. M. Delacour, Frankish composer and founder of _Collectif de Musique Tractionniste_  
Published by _St. Clair et fils,_ Paris, 879 TE

* * *

**Airhaven Postal Office**

**Sou’-Sou’-West Corner**

**Airhaven**

**4 th March 1002 TE**

**To:**

Bovey Gibson, First-Class Navigator

44a Tottenham Court Road

Tier Two, London

* * *

Gib,

Hope this finds you well. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you where I was going and how long I’d be, in a mad rush to escape Prang’s cronies. I can’t imagine you’d love my pale face battered and bruised next time we meet – certainly would give publishers a dimmer view of me already. And I’m afraid it’ll be a long while before we meet next, not just because of London’s underworld growling for musician meat, but because of something else. And I won’t have you off London to come see your Brighton chum either. You might be a navigator, Gib, but you’re a terrible traveller. Anyway, as to why, keep reading and I’ll tell you, it’s most exciting.

Managed to get off London alright, if you need to know. Managed to bribe one or two of the docking crew with what little in Quirkes I had (always surprises me how you Londoners are so easily swayed by coin) and hid in the cargo hold of what seemed to me to be a delivery airship. I know what you’re thinking: _“why didn’t you just take a passenger airship?”_ Because, my dear Gib, that’s where Prang and his bunch would look first! Besides, they’re too expensive. No, I’m saving my busking earnings from London toward accommodation and food – transport be damned, your chum says. And whilst I have your eyes, take care of Bartholomew for me. Would've taken him with me, but I can't have a black mass in my bag when in tricky spots. You know his favourite algae nip. 

Anyway, took refuge underneath a few crates filled to the brim with Old Tech and also took some seedies whilst I was there, thought I could make a quick pawn with them when I’d get to Airhaven – it’d certainly be enough for a room and a meal. One of the ship's crew did come down to the cargo hold for an inspection, make sure there were no straggling hitchhikers. You should’ve seen me, Gib. Thin, scrawny lad like me crawling underneath tarpaulin trying desperately not to make a cat’s ear twitch, that paired with my violin case. Managed to give the prig the slip when his superior called down for him and left me alone in there for the remainder of the voyage.

I knew that getting out without being seen would be the tricky part, they’d be unloading as soon as they were docked. From what I could investigate in the whole hold, there was no probable way I could get out without being seen. Just impossible to slip away unseen. Luckily, your chum had the element of surprise on his side, all I’d need was the right moment.

Judging from the shabbiness of the deliveries, not to mention the airship itself - a ruddy nipper of all things – I could gather that it wouldn’t be docking at one of the more pristine bays, and that would mean less workforce outside and more cheaper for whomever the captain was. My scheme was to immediately hop out once the hold doors were opened outside, leg it across the gangway and hopefully disappear into the crowds before the goons could apprehend me.

Cannot begin to tell you how my nerves were a hold of me, Gib. Hand shaking like hit cymbals. The fated docking was soon approaching; I could hear the voice on the radio in the cockpit signalling for which bay the airship would dock into. From my own memory of Airhaven, I could recall that Strut 78 to 98 was certainly less equipped from my days of hitchhiking before London, before I met you. Thankfully I heard the number 84, so I surely was in the clear?

A few minutes later, the muffled mooring clamps could be heard outside, and already voices were being shouted above me in the hallways of the airship, and outside feet on wooden struts were approaching. Remembering my plan, I positioned myself adjacent the door, and soon enough it slid open with a terrible rusty scraping. In the moment I had, I couldn’t hear many voices from outside, certainly two or three of the crew that I could recognise from the journey, and a couple that were undoubtedly part of the strut service. A burly man stepped inside the hold from the raised gangway, my breath was as raised as St. Paul's Cathedral Gib you should’ve seen me, and the bounder gripped a crate in front of him. No sooner had I stepped forward to go past him while his back was turned did he turn around, hearing my footstep on the metal!

I had very little time, so I flung myself out of the door and sprinted down the gangway. Already I could hear the burly rotter behind me shouting to the crew below, but I didn’t take notice of his words, raising the alarm like the unsympathetic ignoramus he was. Captain of the cargo ship – rather dignified considering his deliveries, still held a disgustingly rough tone to his voice, quite uncharacteristic of him – tried to block my path out of the gangway, but your Brighton chum had one more trick up his sleeve. I climbed up on the railing and jumped across the cloudy precipice (tad of an exaggeration now that I remember there’s a safety net), landing on the strut with a slight wobble before running off down the strut and away. You should have seen me, Gib! Like a rabbit escaping the jaws of a fox, except it’s carrying a violin with a case with some light luggage (which I highly recommend for a quick getaway whilst travelling).

Sunlight dazzled me as I scrambled across the gangway, knocking into a few of the porters and nearly falling over the side myself. Ran like a leopard into the bustling Airhaven streets, could hear the captain bleating like a wounded puppy, trying to get some of the porters to scramble after me – thank goodness for his little argument with ‘em, I’d have never managed to disappear into the crowd. Slipped on that scarf you lent me around my cheeks – Calliope praise you, Gib, by the by, would be captain-meat without you – and disappeared into the ocean of passers-by. You should’ve seen me; I was like a chameleon. Must write a piece about camouflage, as well, remind me in your next correspondence. Found the bastard still chasing me after a few minutes, clearly his reputation was held in high esteem, couldn’t let a proper working man like me tarnish it. Curtly saw him whisper a curse before returning to his ship – you couldn’t imagine my satisfaction and relief, Gib; it was like after an exam or a long journey. Uplifting.

Got to the other side of the donut ring after about half an hour walking, got myself some parchment whilst on the way, the same I’m writing on now. Not cheap either, I’ll have to set aside a few Quirkes to keep you up to date – that’ll mean less food, I’ll need a roof over my head tonight – I did hear that Airhaven can get frightfully cold at night this time of year. Don’t worry yourself, Gib, if your Kip can outrun a fox-captain he can find rooms anywhere! Made a little coin from playing a few hours, did a few Delacour requiems and some Lutetian jigs. Received a fair amount of compliments, and I shall admit a few insults (“Play somewhere else, ya vagrant!”, “Giving me an earache!” among some of them). I received enough for a small meal, something to prepare myself for the journey ahead, which I shall talk more later on. Spent the sunset parked on the precipice – cannot put into words how it looked, Gib. The sun dipping below the layer of clouds like a yellow ice-cream in coffee, like a scorching affogato – utterly beautiful. You really should come to Airhaven you ass, stop staring at your navigational charts and maybe _see_ the actual world!

You may laugh, Gib, but it is true. One of the myriad reasons I love you.

Presently writing from a Café Max, black coffee to keep myself up late as I write - the place is mostly asleep, just the counter-keep and I awake. Rather amusing the looks they give me, Gib. I'd send you a drawing but you know you're the proper artist between us in that regard. A wholly serene scene, watching the late stragglers return home whilst I scribe. My tome of musical sheets sits in my bag like a waiting dog, yapping and hacking as I remain distracted writing to you – sorry Gib, but you know nothing, even you, can compare to it.

Booked a room at the dingiest place I could find, had to make sure the captain’s goons couldn’t find me, you see. Only one night, I intend to make travel tomorrow morn. Here’s hoping some of the more disreputable aviators can take a bribe like I did with your London bay crews. I know, I know, I can hear you groan. You know that tickets leave a fondly paper trail for the bastards who are after me. _“Something always goes on at Airhaven”_ , as whoever says. I don’t intend to be the punchbag for old Prang and his toadies. And I don’t doubt you wouldn’t want your old chum to have black-eyes from Manchester to Murnau. Don’t fret! Your musical mucker has a cunning plan up his sleeves.

I didn’t make much in London, turns out your city has the worst attitude for music in all the places I’ve been. I mean really, no Guild of Musicians? Utterly contemptible. So the next stop of my journey, each of them I will keep you heartily updated upon, will be somewhere new. I’m not intending to return to Brighton in a million years, not just because Prang will send someone there the first moment he discovers where I was born. No, I have something rather more radical in mind, and I know you’ll have your doubts about it, but hear me out.

I intend to travel to Tienjing.

Gib, yes, I know, you tractionists despise the people that stay in one spot, but please my love, listen! Or read, whichever. I have never made my plans to the East because I never thought of it. From the places I’ve been, Cairo, Arkangel, Manchester, to name a few, I’ve never been satisfied by their musical hubs. Their members are mere historians of music rather than performers of it – and you know how much I despise historians. I did think of perhaps setting a course for Oztralia of all places, but their musical prowess is as less transcribed as Shan Guo’s (although I have heard tales of some large woodwind instrument, almost like a large tube - the name escapes me, "Diggery-doo-da"? Rather crude).

Now, because I can read your mind as easily as you read your charts, you must be asking me why I am travelling half a world to go to a place that I don’t know what their musical sensibilities are like. Well, here’s the interesting part. You know how my favourites have influenced my own work. Delacour’s bleakly beautiful Frankish requiems, Henagar’s _Mazurka_ _Darožka_ a guilty pleasure, and of course Klausner’s Slavic-esque string quartets and sonatas joy to my ears. But none of them, Gib, hold a candle to Hayate Amazake.

Who is this Amazake, I hear you ask? He is the Songwright of Shan Guo. Hardly a tractionist today would know of him and his work, not in the least because of his Anti-Tractionist morals. I heard of him first years ago when Ballardo, my mentor in Brighton I believe I told you about, spoke of one of Amazake’s works absently – a suite called _O Green, Bleeding World *****_. Ballardo thought, in typical tractionist fashion, that the suite is a thinly veiled critique of the ways of us city-folk and that Amazake was a tenth-rate composer, but when I performed it myself after pilfering the sheet music one night, I knew that Amazake’s work was my favourite. The alternating notes, masterful in execution that was tainted by my own amateur playing that night so long ago in Brighton, could not be from any less a master of music. No not a master, a _god_.

And since then, whenever there were Amazake sheets in libraries in cities far and wide, I’ve fervently copied them out for my own benefit – a task easier said than done, considering the ambiguity of his name in the frankly abysmal music circles in this day and age. It beggars belief, Gib, I tell you. I thought Ballardo was the worst of them once, but you should see the stuffed shirts in Paris or Murnau. Couldn't play or recognise a tune to save their lives. 

Did I ever tell you of the first musical group I went to in Paris? _Collectif de Musique Tractionniste_. Hot on my heels from Brighton after getting my dues from Ballardo's tutoring (or lack thereof), I travelled to Paris, hearing that the music halls there were the best known in the Hunting Ground. What did I find? A shabby collection of grouchy old Franks who beavered away talking about the glory days and studying their dusty old theory books that were as thick as a single music sheet. Honestly, no wonder you find the Guild of Historians a bunch of tired old gaffers pondering over rocks and fossils from the Ancients. All the time I was there I never saw them once pick up an instrument, let alone play one. I almost thought they'd consider me a heathen for bringing in a violin, expecting to show them my own pieces. I only stayed with the _Collectif_ for two weeks before finding them completely contemptible. Their "recitation" master, Monsieur Ranque, a spectacularly large man with beady little eyes, took my resignation rather personally. 

"We are de mose respectabbluh gatherarn les musiciens en le Terrain de Chasse, petit salaud!" he shouted at me as I left their frankly vapid music hall, about four years ago if memory serves. 

"Respectable, yes. Talented?" I remarked back, rather jokingly whistling the punctual ending to Delacour's _5th Requiem_ as Monsieur Ranque threw some vague Frankish curses at me. 

But I digress. I hear you ask, why am I bringing up this Amazake gentleman now? Well, whilst hiding from the captain in the market, I got wind from a few passing air-traders (didn’t catch a name, but I could tell they were Anti-Tractionists) pass mention of Amazake settling in Tienjing for some homely care. My first thought was that I had no clue that Amazake was still alive, my misconception being that his meagre fame was due to passing generations after a noble death no less fitting to a god such as he. It was quite the shock to my system; I tell you Gib. The great is ill with great age, frail as a bird yet sharp as a bowstring. Mid-90s I can guesstimate. With this knowledge, there was hardly a place I couldn’t go but the home of Hayate Amazake? 

So, at last, what I intend to do in the foreseeable:

  * **Hitch a ride to Batmunkh Gompa from Airhaven.** There's bound to be an airship that'll take me where I need to go, if not I'll simply have to weasel my way in with what I've learned this morning.   
  

  * **Find a guide in the city to get me to Tienjing.** Either cross-country or by airship. Little trickier considering I have no clue what services will be available at the Shield Wall city. All I can hope for is either a guide or a very large map. Have faith in me.   
  

  * **After reaching Tienjing, introduce myself to Amazake.** I intend to make sure his works are brought to the light, Gib, I refuse to let him die forgotten and belied an unknown of musical greatness. I’ll wager he has a roomful of untouched and unplayed musical sheets just waiting in his abode, waiting for the orchestras and the clapping, appreciative audiences. You once asked me during the many moons of my stay in London what I intend to do with myself, and now Gib, I think I can answer. 



~~So, the task a~~ Must stop writing here, I’m afraid. Max’s keep wants me wandering the Airhaven streets. Would write at my digs, but most of Airhaven is shtoom, and you know how I despise silence. Hope I dream of you and the music that'll follow.  
  
~~~~

_Yours, ever yours,_

K.D.  
  


_P.S._ Enjoy the seedy I got from the cargo, saved one for you. Also, for now Gib, don’t send any correspondence back to me for the next few weeks, just until I’ve got a temporary residence somewhere that’ll have time for you to send something. Who knows, you might be sending it to the Amazake household. 

***** Translated from the Airsperanto. Amazake himself was once an aviator in his younger days; travelled most of the world in his airship the _Rage Against The Machine_ collecting various musical instruments both common and outlandish to use in his compositions. _O Green, Bleeding World_ intended to use the ngoni and kora instruments from Zagwa, something called a "shammy-zen" from far eastern Shan Guo, and of course the typical violins, brass and woodwind you'd find in the Brighton music hall. What I would've given to see those different cultures and their practices of music, be it crude or sophisticated. Perhaps once I've completed my self-set task with Amazake, I'll follow in his footsteps, travelling the world and listening to all those different outlandish instruments. A man can dream, old love.


	2. Slough, 7th March 1002 TE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letters of a young struggling but gifted Brighton composer to his navigator lover in London during the later years of the Traction Era, five years before the MEDUSA disaster, as he attempts to make fame and fortune for the struggling medium of music in a world of engines and smoke.

**Tier Two Postal Bureau  
**

**Slough**

**7 th March 1002 TE**

**To:**

Bovey Gibson F.C.Nav

44a Tottenham Court Road

Tier Two, London

Gib,

Spanner in the works(!) as you can see from the return address, and a lot more than I bargained for in how many pages I’m sending. It’ll be a long read I’m afraid, a lot happened in the past few days. Not what I had in mind to get to Batmunkh Gompa before the week’s end, but I’m on my way there. The tale I’m to tell is a rather awkward yet miraculous one, but needless to say you don’t need to go packing and looking for me, after two days without a letter, Gib, I am alive!

If you care to skim some parts, and I won’t blame you Gib, duffer that you are, I arranged passage, but due to an eruption from the Tannhausers we had to pitstop on a mining town, which was chased down by a traction city, and my ride abandoned me, leaving me to be taken up by the completely average city of Slough. Read on for the fuller details…

**_5 th March_ **

As from my last letter, you know I was at Airhaven. Woke up early the next morning in high spirits, having a light breakfast and heading out to the docks to find a prospective ship to Batmunkh Gompa. Made doubly sure I wasn’t rumbled by the crew of the ship I got in on, couldn’t risk a hindrance like that again. I couldn’t find those Anti-Tractionist aviators I passed by the day before, the ones who told me about Amazake – they must’ve left that evening.

Most of the airships I found were going to traction cities in the Great Hunting Ground, hardly the place I want to go right now. A few to Kolkata and Venice, but the enticement of an enjoyable raft city was weaker than my goal. After a couple hours of searching, the closest I found a trading airship that was setting propellers was to a paltry mining town that was making a pass _outside_ the Shield Wall. It was a rather blow to my plans, Gib, I couldn’t believe my rotten luck.

Only after some searching a few hours later did I find the perfect fit. One Kazuo Dell, a Shan Guonese air trader undoubtedly with Anti-Tractionist leanings, piloting a shipment of devilled bats to Batmunkh Gompa. Couldn’t be happier to see him (don’t worry, not an Anti-Tractionist yet Gib!) and from our first conversation he seemed to be happy to see me. I’ll try and recount our first chinwag, cannot guarantee it hasn’t some more exaggerated dialogue, you know how I’m like.

I found Dell after getting some lunch, a light algae sandwich with a refilled canteen of water, coming upon his bright blue airship, a faint white lettering spelling out “ _Primal Scream_ ”, the name of the freighter. Rather an interesting colour scheme, I tell you Gib; I found out later that Dell painted it light blue with some white spots to make it more camouflaged with the spring weather (though when I told him about the plumes of smoke that would come out of the engines he seemed to be rather flabbergasted at the fact) to make himself hidden from air pirates.

Greeted Dell cordially as he was finished talking to a docking official. He’s quite a tall but portly chap, long dark hair in a ponytail and with bright green eyes. Also seemed to have made his own clothes himself, the trader was wearing an awfully drab light green sweater underneath his rugged coat. Did think of maybe introducing myself in my awfully rusty Airsperanto, but I knew he could speak Anglish well enough as I eavesdropped on his conversation with the official. Rather crafty of me, Gib, no?

“Hello.” I greeted simply at first, hanging my violin on my left hand and the small rucksack on my right – I wanted to show that I was a traveller, plain and simple. Though I think Dell noticed rather too well.

“ _Primal Scream_ doesn’t take passengers.” he grunted back to me, turning away. I should note as well, Gib, the fellow rarely smiled. No sense of humour, either. Don’t worry, he does have some positive attributes I’ll make mention later. “Cargo ship.”

I wasn’t going to let him finish it that easily. “I have plenty of gold for where you’re going, or Old-Tech. Quirkes if needs be.”

The trader tittered, then spat on the gangplank. “London currency. What would I do with London currency?”

“I don’t know, spend it?” I retorted back. That got me a _look_ , certainly. Dell noticed my violin case, though.

“You play?” he asked, and I pretended to look down in surprise at the violin case. 

“Yes. A bit.” I half-lied to him. Honestly, Gib, perhaps I should’ve become an actor instead, I was hooking him by the minute. I could tell he had some gained interest in music, perhaps the static settlement he grew up in had a few music nights in those shabby huts they call home?

“Play me something.”

And play him something I did. I knew he wouldn’t recognise any Tractionist composers just as Tractionists wouldn’t recognise Anti-Tractionist composers, so I fiddled a memorised piece by Amazake – a violin solo called _Tannhauser Echoes_. I gave Dell glances throughout, I could tell he was both intrigued, impressed and nostalgic. No doubt he knew of Amazake. Maybe I should’ve become an actor Gib, it was bloody hard to not contain my excitement.

“You know Amazake.” Dell stated after I finished. I nodded. “Why you’re going to Batmunkh Gompa.”

“Yes, I’m going to Tienjing via the Shield Wall. I want to-”

“-What Old-Tech do you have?” 

“Four seedies.”

“All of them, plus two ounces of gold, you have passage.”

I agreed, though it would leave me with only a single ounce of gold left, and we both know that would leave little for me to get to London or Brighton. I did ask why such a hefty price.

“The stolen seedies for the transport, the gold to make sure you don’t get seen. You’re a Tractionist, most Shan Guonese don’t like Tractionists.”

Point taken. I forgot to account for the predominantly Anti-Tractionist checkpoints that’ll come up when we arrive. Try to remind me whenever I do something like this again, Gib. Suppose I should thank my lucky stars that he didn’t bring down the goons on me.

Dell told me he was leaving in an hour or so after the cargo was loaded, a few hundred boxes full of tinned devilled bats (not going to lie even cold they smelled delicious), and that I was welcome to join him for a drink at the Gasbag and Gondola, a rather dingy Anti-Tractionist pub. I wanted to make sure I remain in his good books, so I agreed.

The place wasn’t that busy after lunch, when most of the afternoon airships were making headway for the long hauls, and we easily found a table for ourselves. I noted a Uighur girl playing a fascinating forty-string guitar, a rather crude instrument that had jagged necks and some strings as large as my little finger. Didn’t recognise a tune plucked from it, I think she likely made up her own songs, like me. Dell himself ordered a malt beer. I ordered an algae juice, you know my nature, Gib.

“Man doesn’t drink needs reasons.” Dell remarked as he sipped his beer across from me.

“Alcohol doesn’t agree with me. Not by choice.” I explained gently. I’m sorry I never really told you Gib, if I didn’t – thought since you don’t partake yourself there wasn’t much reason to. Can’t consume the stuff without having a flush or a stuffy nose. A pity really, I’ve heard good things. Dell seemed not to take no for answer, kept pushing me to have a snifter of his beer, but I kindly refused.

We chatted away about Amazake’s work, and Dell gave me some valuable information on the composer that would assist me in introducing me to him. Apparently Amazake is a rather grouchy fellow, a recluse if there ever was any, and extremely protective of his work – and rightly so, I added. Dell rather malignantly believed I wouldn’t have a chance to get into Amazake’s place, he despises tractionists and doesn’t take too fondly to another kind either (the one you and I belong to, Gib, if you take my meaning) from what I could glean from Dell.

I suppose that little fact might’ve quelled my ambition, but I’ll simply have to suppress my best personal quality if I want to get to the hermit. I simply told Dell that I’ll take my chances with him, prompting him to laugh for the first and only time since I met him. Can’t imagine the aviator has many friends.

After the hour was up, we left for the _Primal Scream_ , after Dell recommended I cover the bill for the drink. Cheeky sod. After about ten minutes with Dell arguing with the same dock official, we were soon on my way. Dell made it clear to me first thing that the cockpit was completely off-limits to me, and that I was to stay in the galley for the entire trip, save for toilet breaks on the outside portion of the airship.

Must say as well, was one of the dingiest airships I’ve ever been, and you know me so well Gib that that is saying something. Couldn’t find a single corner of the ship unoccupied by a cobweb, dirt and rust filling most crevices between hob and table, and the sound suppression from the engine room was non-existent. It was like that trip we took to London’s Gut, but far, far worse. But, I couldn’t well complain to Dell without being chucked off mid-flight.

Dell welcomed me to make myself some dinner, so long as there was enough for himself as well. Must’ve figured he had a cabin boy free of charge, I supposed. After a few hours having left Airhaven, I couldn’t suppress my hunger long enough, and reluctantly dove into the cabinets in search of something that at least _resembled_ food.

My search came up rather fruitless, your chum has to say. Found some slices of bread, in an overhead cupboard, couple blocks of appallingly stinking cheese from what I hoped to be one of those cheese-making towns; for drink I didn’t dare use the one rusted tap that was on offer. I simply used my own flask. Honestly Gib I was far more inclined to go into the hold and get one of those devilled bat tins and sink my teeth into those. Again, I could not complain to Dell, he was my one ticket to Batmunkh Gompa.

I knocked on the door to the cockpit, and Dell called me in. I gave him his share of the half-sandwiches, he didn’t seem too fazed by the low-quality of it, and I left him to fly, though I will admit the sight of the sea of clouds, matched with dipping sun bleeding through them was one to behold, Gib. Next time you’re doing a late shift in the Wheelhouse, take a moment to look out up into the clouds.

Spent the rest of the evening practicing a few sheets of my own music, still figuring out an ending for _Mud and Mire_ , the one I showed you the week before I left. I might simply have an abrupt ending, reminiscent of Delacour’s _Naissance de la Traction_ when the hero Marque is crushed by a city wheel. Would that be too anti-climactic? Most music scholars these days found _Naissance_ ’s ending too soon too quick compared to its grand soprano solos. Give me a piece of advice when you send your first letter to me once I’m somewhere more permanent. I am serious, Gib, I value you as a music impresario far more than the cantankerous bores in Paris or Murnau or (and especially) Brighton.

Nearing my sleep, I checked on Dell. He explained that he’d be staying awake throughout the night and gave me a piece of news I was not aware of. We’d be making a slight detour due to a reported volcanic eruption near the Tannhauser’s. The detour meant that the _Primal Scream_ wouldn’t have enough fuel to reach the Shield Wall, so Dell was going to park on a traction town to take us close enough to Batmunkh Gompa so that we wouldn’t lose all our fuel. I did wonder why an Anti-Tractionist like him would park his airship on a traction town, but I wasn’t going to point that out, not with our situation. He estimated that it would take us at least another day if we were lucky enough to find a town to get us close. And so my luck had run out for the second time. I begrudgingly agreed, though I had no say in the matter.

Dell recommended that I get some sleep and that he’d wake me early in the morning once he’d found a traction town. Found a raggedy bunk in the room next to the galley, and hope I dream of you at Tottenham Court Road, singing me to sleep in that silk voice of yours.

**_6 th March_ **

Dell woke me up at around dawn. Wagered I had about five or six hours of sleep. I drearily remembered there was no coffee on board, so I drank what little I had in water to perk myself up. Dell informed me that he’d found several traction towns during the night, but most of them were heading north-wards now that the harsh winter was beginning to end, but he had found a small mining town that was heading toward the Sea of Khazak for a trading cluster, which was near enough to the Shield Wall that we could easily make it.

The mining town, a nippy roamer called Meissenstadt, allowed us one of the three docks and a maximum stay of 12 hours, which Dell admitted was shorter than he was hoping for, but he estimated that the _Primal Scream_ would need to do some favourable gliding on the Shan Guonese winds to reach the Shield Wall. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic at the prospect, but I saw little else in the alternative department.

Dell allowed me in the cockpit as we began the descent, and blithely told me to keep my mouth shut once we landed, despite my objections. I could see the little ants of people waving at us as we neared the docking bay, and noticed two more ships at the other docks, no doubt other traders hit by the Tannhausers eruption. Once we’d touched down, we were met off the ship by the Mayor of Meissenstadt, a rather dour and sullen gentleman called Herr Hollom, who greeted us to his humble mining town. I left the talking to Dell, who introduced us both, though he made me his trusty crewmate rather than a passenger. Hollom did ask us to elaborate on the nature of our visit, and Dell lied straight to his face, explaining that we were on our way to Panzerstadt-Bayreuth to deliver devilled bats. A rather tense moment, Gib I tell you, hardly what I signed up for – I guessed that Dell didn’t want antagonisms if the townspeople didn’t take kindly to Anti-Tractionists, though I don’t know why he had to rope me into the deception.

Hollom seemed to buy it, and offered a small tour of the town, which we obliged out of courtesy. The Mayor gave us some facts about the mining town, such as the population of four hundred, it’s sizeable digging equipment and its long-standing competition with other towns like Salthook and Hogsmore, in which Hollom made plain that Meissenstadt was doing far better than them. I could tell he was a rather smug fellow; hope we didn’t have to stay long before we reached the trading cluster. Dell seemed to read my mind, and asked Hollom how long it would be until we reached this trading cluster, which provoked a tense response from Hollom.

“You’re not looking for predator’s gold, are you?”

I’m not an avid tractionist myself, but I knew what the term meant. And that, paired with Dell’s appearance which would’ve sparked suspicion from Hollom, I knew that we’d be in a bad way by the end of those 12 hours.

Luckily, Dell handled the situation quite well, all things considered. He managed to bribe Hollom with a quarter of his cargo of tinned devilled bats, enough to feed the whole town for a single day, and Hollom allowed the _Primal Scream_ an extended stay of four hours, which would allow us to stay at the trading cluster for a few hours and we’d be on our way to Batmunkh Gompa.

Must add as well, Gib, this would be my first trading cluster I’ve ever been to, save for the Moon Festival in Brighton. I was rather excited by it, though I could tell Dell was less than enthusiastic about it. He made me help unload the quarter of the cargo to the dockhands, and I wondered what would happen between Dell and the recipients at Batmunkh Gompa, but he didn’t seem too worried by that inevitability. I assume things like the Tannhausers happen most of the time in the trading business.

After we had got that all done and locked the cargo up, Hollom recommended having lunch at their local alehouse _Der gestillte Durst_. To my surprise, Gib, the food was rather good. Algae-based of course, but they had cooked chickens richer than most I’ve found in the Hunting Ground, the meal itself a delicacy for airship guests in an attempt to get them to come back for more. A rather smart move on their part, I’d wager it was Herr Hollom’s scheme.

Only downside of the meal was the rather clinging crowd, especially the youngsters who hadn’t ever left their town in their lives, who kept probing us with questions on the goings-on of the Hunting Ground: if we’d seen any Panzerstadt conurbations, if your London had decided to come out across the Land Bridge, what Airhaven is like, you name it. Eventually the subject came up about my violin case (that and my luggage I never kept out of my sight since the start of the trip, I didn’t fully trust Dell yet), and the townspeople of Meissenstadt were more than enthusiastic about having a musician on-deck.

Not one to not pass up a chance to make a penny for my practice, I offered to play a few jigs for dancing and a lament here or there to make ‘em appreciate Delacour or my feeble translation of Klausner’s sonatas to violin. The townspeople had quite the time dancing to my playing of Lutece’s shanties like _Haul on the Powerline, What Will We Do with a Drunken Aviator*_ and _Engine Sally_ _Racket._ I got word from one of them that the town’s sole musician had died a few months ago, a fiddler like me – so the Meisseners were more than happy to get to hear something both familiar but new.

Not going to believe it, Gib, but I got over a hundred pieces of gold from the townspeople at afternoon! They were rather taken with your Brighton chum, he shall confess. Was very tempted to maybe stay an extra day to make some more, but I knew I’d never make it to Tienjing if I did that. One further detail, Dell insisted on taking a portion of it considering it was he that brought me here, but I told him I paid enough for transport, and that looked like it shut him well enough up. Honestly he could stick his pay right up where the sun doesn’t shine.

After the festivities, Dell insisted that we get back to the airship, but I decided to stay for a few more hours at the alehouse. I wasn’t about to let up some more playing for pennies.

Decided to go for less challenging pieces, Lutetian jigs had a tiring effect on my hands they are blasted quick, so I gave them some of my own compositions – a little disappointing to my own ears as it’s nothing without a full orchestra for my works, but some of them were taken and some of them weren’t.

I did have a brief conversation with an aviatrix who I’d noticed had been watching my performance for a while. She explained she was from one of the airships currently docked.

“Enjoyed the performance, madam?” I asked, rather playfully, though a tad tired from playing.

“Somewhat. I find Lloyd Lutece a rather overrated composer,” she told me. She wasn’t much of a vision in terms of appearances for your sake of imagination Gib. Surprisingly old with her hair tied in a bun and distinct goggle marks on her wrinkled face. “He mostly copied shanties from raft town gut workers and just added violin tunes to them. Though I enjoyed your compositions much more.”

I was rather impressed with her knowledge. “True, but he certainly brought shanties to more widespread attention, no? Miss?”

“ _Mrs._ Helga Riddell, pilot of the _Dexter and Sinister_. Mr.?”

“Dahl, Kipling.” I returned. I liked her sharp tongue, it’s why I like you so much, Gib. If you’re thinking it, nothing happened! I’m not one for that sort of behaviour, or I would’ve almost certainly left you for a dandy in a heartbeat! “Composer and musician.”

“Oh? Not crewmate of the _Primal Scream_?” she inquired back. I could see where her line was coming from.

“A passenger. Dell’s idea.”

“He’s an Anti-Tractionist.” she stated bluntly.

“You’re getting that now? I’m still amazed Herr Hollom believed him.”

“Herr Hollom didn’t. It was just to get something from an air-merchant in exchange for an unslit throat, Anti-Tractionist or otherwise. If your aviator had nothing to give the townspeople would be scrapping that airship till sundown in the engine. It’s common practice nowadays. Mining towns need food from somewhere else, it’s why I have a contract with Meissenstadt to stop my airship from being crushed and my throat remaining unslit.”

“You’re a deliverer, essentially.” I smirked. 

“In exchange for getting a supple amount of food each week. I don’t go just to this town. I have agreements with Salthook, Hogsmore, Salzburgenstadt, you name it. It’s the way things are. I remember when towns like this used to plead, beg even, for passing airships to come down and trade.”

“Not my area of expertise.”

“No, you just make money from people’s entertainment and stolen goods.”

“Stolen goods?”

“You’re a musician, how else are you going to make coin?”

It was at that precise moment I heard a bell sounding from outside the alehouse, and the townspeople inside cheered with delight, some speaking to each other German, some in Anglish about a trading cluster. Packing up my violin, I followed Mrs. Riddell, and we heard over a speaker that a trading cluster was in sights, and Meissenstadt would be arriving in twelve minutes or so. Mrs. Riddell advised that we both get back to our respective airships, as most other towns at trading clusters tended to focus more on airships than their neighbouring towns. I decided against it, I wasn’t going to let my first cluster go unattended. I had heard tales during my stay in Paris that clusters also had small dedicated markets for musical instruments, or the trend of DJ archaeologists (a practice I do look down upon, I’ll mention) selling Old-Tech recordings of the songs of the Ancients.

I took my place in the large crowd at the back of the mining town as it reversed into the collection of five or so other trading towns, watching the large plank of corrugated metal lower down from the back like a drawbridge, and the people of Meissenstadt went to work selling wares, trinkets and bric-a-brac from their mining operations.

How do I describe the scene, Gib? It was far, far busier than Airhaven. People of such varying languages conversing with each other in an ocean of straw hats and scraggly hair, objects of Old-Tech, new clever inventions made from Old-Tech, food stalls of varying flavours of algae from the Sea of Khazak, fisherman travelled from raft towns selling trout, bass, cod, you name it. A chaotic scene, but one of such _activity_. I had an idea for a more experimental piece, a cacophony of instruments from all over the world, bustled together in different harmonies and riffs, all before becoming a single simplistic tune – how’s _Trading Cluster_ for a title?

My wonder was cut short, not because I couldn’t find any instruments of any kind, but something that would scupper my prospect quite… drastically. An alarm above from one of the town’s watchtowers and a voice spoke from a loudspeaker, telling everyone that a traction city was sighted many miles away and was coming straight for the trading cluster.

If I thought the ordinary trading cluster was busy, you cannot imagine what happens when people panic. Shouting, screaming, running and sprinting across the whole length of the trading cluster to get back to their towns. I broke into a sprint myself, and it was my own blasted fault I was the far side away from Meissenstadt, but after navigating through the ocean of screaming townsmen and women as they frantically assembled their things, I managed to climb up onto the gangplank that had begun to slowly extend upward. It was a bloody close shave as well, one of the townsfolk commended me on getting just in the nick of time. 

Getting my bearings on the mining town as its engines roared into life, I could see one of the airships from the docks begin to lift off, and my heart veritably sunk, Gib. I thought it was the _Primal Scream_ , but it was the other trading ship, not Mrs. Riddell’s either. I could faintly see that it was frantically attempting to escape but was firmly towed onto the dock. Clearly the owners forgot to untether their airship. But I knew that Dell wouldn’t want his airship captured in a traction city gut this afternoon, so I began scrambling my way up gangways and stairways to get to my only ticket off the rust bucket.

It was about half-way there did the mining town begin to move suddenly, and I’m not sure what happened precisely; I must’ve tripped on my own foot from the sudden lurch or I was fatigued from my dead sprint, but a moment later I found myself lying back-down on the grating at the bottom of a metal stairway, the back of my noggin hurting and the distant sound of much larger engines and track marks coming from behind Meissenstadt.

Before I continue, I must apologise for the rather non-descriptive writing I’ve taken with this chase, Gib. At the time I was maddened with fear of being either left on the town or captured by the pursuing city – it could’ve been a slave city for all I knew. people on the mining town felt the same, begging to their own gods to save their skins – I don’t believe in any apart from Calliope, and I knew the goddess of arts couldn’t help in a time like this.

I managed to reach the docks a minute or so later, only to find that there was only one airship remaining. And it wasn’t the _Primal Scream_. Dell had left me. I could see the faint light blue airship chugging away to the east, leaving me behind. You’d have thought I’d had gone mad seeing me, Gib, I howled as loud as I could at the airship, at Dell, at unfairness. In all the madness I was going through I was failing to see that the traction city was getting all the closer to Meissenstadt, and that it was going to catch it.

“Need a lift?” a female voice called over to me, and I turned to see Mrs. Helga Riddell, her wrinkled face peering out the window of the last airship on the dock, the _Dexter and Sinister_.

“What’s your price?” I shouted back. To tell you the truth, Gib, I would’ve sold all my clothes to get a lift. But once I noticed that the tether line was still attached to the airship, I knew that she wasn’t going anywhere. “You haven’t even got the ship untethered, you imbecile!”

“I know!” she shouted back, as if it was the most obvious observation. “The bastards chickened out once they helped your friend launch! Find a dock worker, get me untethered!”

“And you’ll let me on?” I asked back, hoping to anything that she would say yes.

“If you get my ship untethered!” she snapped back, desperate. Clearly she wasn’t so different from Dell on that front. Honestly though, Gib, if I ever get my hands on that Anti-Tractionist…

I figured that a dock worker would be below, perhaps working the engines to make the mining town go faster, so I scrambled back down, leaving my luggage and case on the dock platform to make sure I wasn’t bogged down. A risky move on my part, but I really had no better alternative. I must thank Herr Hollom for being an egotistical mayor, or I would never have found the entrance to the engine room and found one of the younger dock workers I recognised sitting and crying nearby, clearly losing hope by the minute.

“Hey! The last airship needs to leave! Get her untethered!” I shouted at him over the billowing engines coming from behind the door. His head was in his hands, so perhaps he didn’t hear me. I shook him violently, getting him to buck up. “Look! Get her untethered and I’ll give you five gold nuggets, alright?!”

We reached the platform in a more record time, mercifully my things were still there, and the dock worker and I got to unfastening the tether from the airship, removing the heavy iron hook from the mooring bar at the side of the _Dexter and Sinister_. The ship lurched and began to move away from the platform, and I called to Mrs. Riddell in the cockpit to bring her closer to the platform so I could get on.

I got the dock worker to get my luggage to me as the _Dexter and Sinister_ inched closer down onto the platform, her propellers trying to match the speed of the mining town below it. Just as the doors to the hold were just within my grasp, a loud but distant shot bang could be heard, then several more. I turned my heard toward the source, which came from the traction city – I could see grappling hooks, Gib!

As if on instinct, I ~~hit the decks immediately, but not after grabbing my violin case from the dock worker, who saw too much but didn’t react. I heard several loud thuds of dull metal on rusty metal, and the entire mining town lurched backward at once. I reared my head on the deck to find the~~ ~~dock worker on his back, having the wind taken out of him, and five large metal chains linked from the back of Meissenstadt to the front jaws of the traction city. They had caught it.~~

Going on for far too long on this, perhaps I should become a writer, eh Gib? I’ll cut to the chase (pun not intended). Meissenstadt was consumed, Mrs. bloody Riddell flew off in her airship the moment the hooks caught the town. I want you to know as well Gib that I am perfectly fine. Turns out that Slough (the city’s name) wasn’t a slave city, just an incredibly bog-standard, run-of-the-mill and common-or-garden predator city. I did try and explain my situation to one of the officials cataloguing the city’s new “proud” citizens but was swiftly ignored and set aside. Honestly, the stuffed shirts of these places.

Given a room share with ten other people for the night, they’re going to be assigning job roles for the morning. They haven’t confiscated anything of my own thankfully, so I still have the chance to write this letter. I’ll relay tomorrow’s events further on, it’s getting late. I’ve got high spirits I’ll be getting off this tub soon enough, I wasn’t technically a citizen of the mining town, so surely I’m not part of the catch. Must stop, some prig is annoyed I’m still awake writing in the dark.

Hopefully I’ll dream of you again to brighten my night.

**_7 th March_ **

So, the day’s events. My spirits are much better after today. Things turned in my favour. I’ll make sure the past day’s events will be sent to you. Don’t send anything to Slough for goodness sake! Wait until I’m somewhere permanent like we agreed, Gib.

Rudely awakened at god knows what hour by the goons, brought into a small hall that rather badly accommodated the four hundred and one citizens of Meissenstadt, which we all could hear still being scrapped and cut up to feed the engines. They sorted us male, women, teens and children – be thankful your Brighton chum was clean shaven, the goons thought I was still a teen! All the men were assigned to work in the engine and scrap yards in exchange for food and shelter for families, women were given the option to work in the engine or work in maintenance. Most chose maintenance.

As for me and the youngsters (I’m still flabbergasted they thought I was below 20, do I really look it, Gib? Not a bad thing, I’m sure?) we were put to work sorting out the Old-Tech scraps from Slough’s previous catches from the past weeks. Couldn’t really object without getting a baton through the teeth, so your chum had to dig through dumpsters for several hours. You’d be surprised what people find out there on the Hunting Ground. I did find some knobs for a guitar string, but nothing else related to musical instruments – suppose that’s a relief, that no instruments are on a scrap heap somewhere in the world.

Anyway, as to how I got out of this pickle. I honestly couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her. Mrs. Helga Riddell, in the flesh, looking for me of all people. Turns out she felt jolly rotten leaving me behind and seeing as her contract with Meissenstadt ended when it was eaten by Slough, she needed a new contractor – and her line of business went from deliveries to transport. Cannot thank the sharp-tongued octogenarian enough, Gib; she saved my skin and even let me choose a destination. I must confess it was rather amusing looking at the townspeople as I left, especially Herr Hollom, when the violin player got a way out of Gut work for the people who caught ‘em. Sounds cruel I know, Gib, but that’s the nature of tractionism, isn’t it?

Mrs. Riddell is getting on in age, turns out she knows that she hasn’t got many years left before she kicks it, and so she’d rather like my company for a while – spectacularly enough. I’m not complaining, but don’t fret, Gib, I’m not that sort so you don’t need to worry on your part – worry more for mine! I’m going to make sure she gets me to Batmunkh Gompa, and who knows, she could maybe give me a lift back once my work in Tienjing is done.

Just finished some lunch on Slough’s second tier, typical algae foodstuffs. Mrs. Riddell is sat across from me, snacking on her own meal. We decided to wait on the city as it was making a pass at the Shield Wall, so we’d have a clear shot of getting their in a shorter time. By the time you’ll be reading this, I’ll be on my way to Tienjing from Batmunkh Gompa with whomever is swayed with coin to be a guide for me, or if I can find a comfy airship that won’t abandon me like last time.

The old aviatrix did ask me who I was writing to. Guess what I said? Mentioned you were an old female flame! The nerve I know, Gib, but I didn’t want to risk a steely attitude from her – I’m not saying she’s _that_ sort, but you know what old people are like; that Lord Mayor of yours particularly, what a ghastly fellow!

Must dash, Mrs. Riddell wants to get back to the _Dexter and Sinister_. I’ll be making my way to the postal bureau, hoping you get this letter safely.

_Yours, ever yours,_

K.D.

P.S. Writing in the bureau now, just wanted to mention that I do love you, Gib. Every day I’m away from you I want to crawl back to London and knock on your door of Tottenham Court Road and take you in my thin arms, to feel you. To kiss you. Don’t weep on either of our accounts, my Navigator. Your Brighton chum will be back soon, and you might be able to send me a reply soon.

Till then.

*Will make sure I perform this for you when I get back!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most popular raft town shanties by Lloyd Lutece (786 - 878 TE):
> 
> What Will We Do with a Drunk Aviator? - Sung by the dock workers for airships on raft towns, particularly toward the more laissez-faire air-traders of the mid to late-Traction Era. Intended to be a humorous critique on air-traders that tended to overstay their welcome on traction towns, the final stanza making mention of them scarpering as soon as a larger city is down on the town in a chase. 
> 
> Example:
> 
> What will we do with a Drunk Aviator? (x3)  
> Early in the morning  
> Hey ho and chug our town goes (x3)  
> Put 'em in the bed with the Mayor's daughter (x3)  
> Early in the morning  
> Hey ho and chug our town goes (x3)
> 
> Haul on the Powerline - a work shanty typically sung by engineers and workers within engine districts, alluding to the pull cords used in some raft towns to start ignition on their engines. Normally situated during frantic chases from large predator rafts that preyed on fishing towns in the lower Indian Ocean. 
> 
> Example:  
> Haul on the powerlin', me Charley comes from Brighton,  
> Haul on the powerlin', the powerlin' haul!  
> Haul on the powerlin', me Charley is me darlin'.  
> Haul on the powerlin', the powerlin' haul!  
> Haul on the powerlin', so early in the mornin'.  
> Haul on the powerlin', the powerlin' haul!
> 
> Engine Sally Racket - most engine workers in raft towns tend to give affectionate names for their engines, much to the consternation of their far cleaner and hygienic superiors, a prime case being Lutece's own Trurowboat. The song was not only a doting song for their engine, but also a feeble way to block out the thundering chugs that made them near-deaf.
> 
> Example:  
> Engine Sally Racket  
> Haul her away!  
> She got dirty me jacket  
> Haul her away!  
> Then flooded we got the bucket  
> Haul her away!  
> And a hauley high-o!  
> Haul her away!
> 
> Roll The Old Chariot/Tub Along / A Drop of Quirke's Blood - one of the few shanties that were also sung on land, an aspect theorised by Lutece that emerged likely a few generations before his practice. Two versions of the shanty exist, though entirely different lyrics depend on which raft/traction city one is on. Quirke's Blood is a slang term for the "Alegae" alcoholic beverage made from the algae runoff under engines, a particular favourite of engine workers. 
> 
> Example: 
> 
> Oh a drop of Quirke's blood wouldn't do us any harm, (x3)  
> And we'll all hang on behind.  
> And we will roll the old chariot/tub along,  
> We'll roll the old chariot/tub along, (x2)  
> And we'll all hang on behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Notable musicians, composers and bands of the Traction Era:
> 
> Jean Mobyous Delacour (823 - 897 TE) - arguably the most well-known composer of the Traction Era, certainly in the Frankish and Anglish-speaking echelons, the Parisian Delacour was the composer of some 150 distinctive pieces that ranged from his widely-lauded series of requiems, to his extensive selection of oratorios and operas, such as the still-performed "Naissance de la Traction". His memoir "Musique de l'ère de la Traction" is widely published to this day, remaining a favourite of up and coming composers the world over. 
> 
> Lloyd Lutece (786 - 878 TE) - one of the most accomplished Anglish musicians and notable violin players of the later years of the Traction Era, Lutece was the author and reciter of some 200+ raft shanties, having grown up in the fishing town of Trurowboat where the Anglish sailor dialect had a distinct influence upon his work. Some of his pieces often use city engine chugs to match the tempo of his playing, making his music a much sought-after piece of entertainment. 
> 
> Bandi Henagar (862 - 944 TE) - considered the last of the "true classic" composers of the latter half of the Traction Era, the Bremer Henagar was a late pupil for the then elderly Delacour, incorporating his teachings into more polka-based works, such as his series of Slavic Mazurkas. He was also famously known for never taking any pupils, no matter how many bremarks were offered to him. 
> 
> Wolf Klausner (798 - 834 TE) - one of the few composers in the Traction Era that never reached old age, the German Klausner, born on Murnau, was a child prodigy on the piano at the small age of 10. Becoming the talk of the traction city, Klausner was well-respected by his peers, who envisioned him to become one of the greats. Although producing little over 30 works, including multiple string-quartets and his Hunting Ground-famous sonatas that have become a staple of piano players, Klausner was shot and killed by a jealous composer at the age of 36. His apartment where he composed all his works is still a popular tourist attraction for visitors to Murnau. 
> 
> Florynce and the DJ Archeologists (1001 TE - ) - perhaps the most widely known archeopop bands in the present day of the Traction Era. The band makes use of Old Tech scrap recycled into unique and stylish musical instruments played by band members Yannis Yorke and Diogenes Lemon, accompanying Edinburgensian vocalist Florynce Tucker and recorded music salvaged from tapes and vinyls, compiled together by DJ archeologist Elmo Wake. 
> 
> Kipling Dahl (980 TE - ?) - a Brightonian composer of modest upbringing and a former protégé of conductor Hermy Ballardo, Dahl is a more than infamous musician in the more classical corners of Traction Era music. Having derisively rebutted the Collective of Traction Musicians of Paris, Dahl has long believed music to be hideously underperformed, particularly it's more classical performances.


End file.
